


Moonlight

by UAgirl



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Daryl gets pissed, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Mild Angst, Pre-Relationship, aka the one where Carol risks her life to save a kitten, because of course Season 2 Carol would do such a thing, born from my desire to put an itty bitty kitty in Daryl Dixon's (reluctantly) protective arms, oh and they cuddle, season 2/3 interlude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 07:44:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14351022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UAgirl/pseuds/UAgirl
Summary: This is all your fault.





	Moonlight

“This is all your fault.” 

 

 

 

Daryl rounded on her, his blue eyes narrowed to irritated slits.  “My fault?  The hell you talkin’ ‘bout, Woman?”  It spoke to the amount of confidence she’d gained since the Quarry and putting a pickaxe to that fucker’s skull, since losing her girl out on that highway and again at the Farm, that she didn’t flinch away from him, only stepped closer, but hell.  Weren’t like it took much for them to be toe to toe, being stuck in another airless box and all.  Least it felt like he couldn’t breathe, what with all the dead people’s clutter surrounding them.  There were just the barest slivers of light sneaking in through the cracks of the boards covering up their attic refuge’s small window, and it was fast fading, leading him to believe they weren’t going anywhere soon.  At least not until the small herd out there lost interest and moved on and he didn’t have to be a betting man to know the odds weren’t exactly stacked in their favor on that count.  Weren’t just the living that were looking to fill their bellies, after all.  “Naw.  Way I see it, this is _your_ fault.  Not mine.” 

 

 

 

“My fault?” Carol sputtered incredulously, stabbing a pointed finger into his chest.  “Really?  You’re really going to try to tell me that…no.  Know what?  I had it handled.  I was fine.  I didn’t need you swooping in and playing the part of my protector like I’m some defenseless burden.  I’m not.  Not anymore.  And reading me the riot act like you know better?  I was _fine_.” 

 

 

 

She was breathing hard after spitting out that last part, her posture, her tone, her too bright eyes reeking of defiance, and some small part of Daryl wanted to give her a slow clap of pride, but the larger part of him was fuckin’ pissed and he growled.  “You through?”  Jabbing his own finger at her chest and the threadbare jacket zipped all the way to her neck, her scarf looped double against the biting chill in the air and a pair of exhausted jade eyes peeking over the top of it and watching every move he made with suspicion, he snapped.  “Was a fuckin’ cat.  Not medicine.  Not clothes.  Not even enough meat on its bones to even call it food.  Nothin’ worth losin’ your fool head over.  Had every damn right to swoop in and rescue your stupid, stubborn ass.”  It was clear his words had made some sort of impact from the way she shrank back and put some sorely needed space between them again.  What wasn’t clear was whether it was good or bad because she’d gone quiet, the look in her eyes distant and unreadable from the moment he’d launched into his tirade, and fuck if that didn’t make him feel worse than almost witnessing her become an evening snack for one of them assholes—all for an undeserving scrawny, hissing flea bag with needlepoint claws.  Sighing, he rubbed a tired hand over his face and allowed his voice to soften to the register that usually came so easily to him where she was concerned.  Still, he wouldn’t say he was sorry for something he’d do all over again.  “Ain’t apologizin’.” 

 

 

 

She matched his sigh with one of her own.  “Of course not.”  Pacing away from him, she peered through the narrow slats out into the growing darkness, absently scratching a nail through the matted gray fur of the kitten curled up all cozy and tight to her chest. 

 

 

 

Fighting against going on the defensive again, Daryl kept his comments calm and to the point, no nonsense.  “Somebody needed to talk some sense into you.  If I hadn’t come along when I did, _shit_.  If I hadn’t, you’d have got yourself killed.  So I ain’t apologizin’.  Won’t.  So don’t waste your time waitin’.”  Shrugging his crossbow off his shoulder, he propped it against a stack of overflowing, mildewed cardboard boxes and crossed the small distance between them, doing his own perusal of the shambling obstacles to their safe return to their group.  Letting his gaze drift to her lowered silver head, he mused, “Gonna be a long night.  Cold.  Best find a spot to bed down in while we still have the light.” 

 

 

 

Without a word, she nodded and turned on her heel, carefully picking her way across the claustrophobic space with its jungle of boxes and dusty, long forgotten furniture like it was a virtual landmine. 

 

 

 

Like she had experience waiting for the world around her to detonate without a moment’s notice, and Daryl supposed she did.  His thumbnail and words of regret trapped between his teeth, he could only watch her go.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It wasn’t long before a full moon rose high in the sky amidst a blanket of twinkling stars and a nearby hoot owl’s distinctive call mingled with the low, rasping growls of the restless undead outside.  Otherwise, the night was eerily still, and Daryl knew he wasn’t the only one that felt it.  Though she hadn’t uttered more than a few perfunctory words here and there since the evening had waned and then only when he’d addressed her, Carol’s own unease was palpable and he couldn’t take it anymore.  Tucking his hands in his armpits for added warmth, he left his lonely sentinel at the boarded window and made his careful approach, gruffly cleared his throat.  “Hey.” 

 

 

 

“Hey,” she murmured back, her blue eyes liquid in the faint flicker of candlelight as she looked up at him.  The half-starved kitten lolled against her boot clad foot, halfheartedly batting at her frayed laces as she lifted the edge of her blanket in unspoken peace offering. 

 

 

 

With little hesitation, Daryl settled down beside her, the long months of forced togetherness and his own desire for a return to their usual, earned rapport making the decision easy.  He breathed deep and untroubled when her thin shoulder bumped against his own, kicking out his feet when she curled her legs inward.  Leaning his weary head back against the mound of pillows she’d propped against the skeletal remains of an old futon unearthed in her earlier explorations, he closed his eyes.  Then immediately opened them again.  “What the hell?” 

 

 

 

Carol startled beside him, going rigid, and the tiny cat seemed to revert back to its feral roots, its fur rippling across its bony back and a low, surprisingly menacing sounding growl emanating from its throat.  “What?” 

 

 

 

Daryl pointed overhead.  “That.” 

 

 

 

She followed his gaze to the rafters and her mouth dropped open, before she glanced at him and all but erupted with laughter, albeit muffled laughter.  Blue eyes dancing, pink lips quivering and cheeks flushed, she finally calmed enough to ask, “ _That_?” 

 

 

 

Daryl resisted the impulse to shudder, the overwhelming need in that moment to press his mouth to hers and preserve the memory of her happiness even if it was at his expense.  Instead, he ducked his head and grumbled.  “Ain’t sleepin’ ‘neath that thing.” 

 

 

 

“Thing?” Carol teased good-naturedly.  “Are you telling me someone as brave and fearless and capable as you is scared of jolly old Saint Nick?” 

 

 

 

“When he looks _that_ demented,” he muttered.  “Yeah.  You better fuckin’ believe it.” 

 

 

 

Wrapping both hands around his arm, she rest her chin upon his shoulder and grinned at his profile.  “Don’t worry, Pookie.  You can always sleep beneath me.” 

 

 

 

Feeling like his cheeks were flaming ten different shades of red, Daryl groaned and gently elbowed her in the ribs.  “Stop.” 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Naw,” he huffed later, his rough hand darting out to grab her by the arm.  “Bad ‘nough you always sneakin’ every other bite you get to Lori or the kid.  You ain’t feedin’ your dinner to that flea bag.”  Seemingly offended by his pronouncement, the little sack of bones and fur mewed pitifully and stared up at him with eyes too big for its tiny head, but Daryl refused to let his heart be swayed no matter how much it might have wanted to.  Woman had been thin enough before, but since the fall of the Farm and their tour of desperation seeking food and shelter in a desiccated landscape, she’d lost even more weight, and it didn’t escape his notice how her clothes hung ever more loosely on her shoulders and hips.  If he were truthful with himself, nothing about her had _ever_ escaped his notice, so it wasn’t any surprise he’d caught her trying to feed her meager rations to the tiny animal that he considered to be at the root of their current predicament.  “Naw,” he repeated, gentling his grip on her before letting it fall away altogether. 

 

 

 

Carol’s shoulders slumped only slightly.  “They need it more than me,” she insisted.  “Even Gandalf does.” 

 

 

 

Daryl snorted.  “Fuck kind of name is that?” 

 

 

 

“Gandalf.  Like in the _Lord_ _of_ _the_ _Rings_ ,” she explained. 

 

 

 

Daryl grunted and shook his head.  “Seen it.  Still a shit name for a cat.”  Sneaking a peek at her beside him, he watched her chew her lips in contemplation before her chin lifted stubbornly and he had to suppress a smirk.  That was happening more and more, her taking up for herself and standing her ground.  He liked it. 

 

 

 

“Well, I happen to think it fits.  Think Carl will like it, too,” she muttered. 

 

 

 

He didn’t tell her all the reasons it wasn’t a good idea, putting a name on trouble like that and getting attached, making plans.  He reckoned she knew better than most how fragile the future really was, had known that particular truth long before the world’s eventual end.  No.  He didn’t do that.  Didn’t mention how impractical it was, taking on the responsibility of a pet when they could barely feed themselves these days.  He just played along, in his own way, of course.  “How you so sure it’s a Tom?”

 

 

 

“I’m not,” she told him with a closed lip smile.  “Either way it looks like a Gandalf.” 

 

 

 

“’Spose,” he reluctantly agreed.  Eying the pink lump of canned meat that she still hadn’t touched, he sighed.  “You really ain’t gonna eat that?” 

 

 

 

“I know beggars can’t be choosers,” she told him, her nose wrinkling with disgust, “but no.  There are some things even an apocalypse can’t make enticing, and cold Spam is definitely one of them for me.  Sorry.  You want it?”                                                                                                      

 

 

 

“Naw,” he eventually said.  “Gandalf over there needs to build up his energy if he’s gonna earn his keep.  Reckon he’ll make a decent ‘nough mouser given time.  Get Lori off Rick’s back and make you smile.” 

 

 

 

She looked at him like he’d just handed her the moon and all the glittering stars in the heavens above, the promise of forever.  “Me?” she asked softly. 

 

 

 

He shrugged uncomfortably, reaching over her to grab the Spam and tear it into pieces small enough for the little gray ball of fur to chew.  “You.  The kids.  Everybody.” 

 

 

 

She nodded to herself.  “Everybody.  Sure.  Right.”  

 

 

 

“Hey.”  He nudged her shoulder when her face fell, directed her attention to the ravenous little beast as it attacked its donated meal.  “Would you look at that?  Guess you were right.” 

 

 

 

Allowing herself to be distracted, she laughed.  “I’m _always_ right.” 

 

 

 

The corner of his mouth lifted in his own version of a smile.  Well, she wasn’t _exactly_ wrong. 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He must have dozed off because one minute they were shoulder to shoulder, not really saying anything, just watching the cat do what cats do and letting the silence swallow up all their thoughts and words, and the next he was sitting upright with a gasp and searching for her in the darkness.  It only took a quick scan of his surroundings to locate her:  standing in front of an empty white crib and cradling a rag doll in her arms, looking so wistful and lost in that unguarded moment that his throat threatened to seize up.  Unable to bear seeing her look such a way, he cleared his throat and pretended he couldn’t see the silver sheen of unshed tears that made her blue eyes that much more beautiful.  “Couldn’t sleep?” 

 

 

 

She replaced the doll in the crib before answering him with a simple shake of her head. 

 

 

 

“Should have woke me,” Daryl told her, thumbing the last vestiges of sleep from his gritty eyes.  When he attempted to stretch his arms and legs beneath the blanket she had covered him with, he felt the razor-sharp sting of a pair of claws sinking into his thigh and swore.  “Fuckin’ hell.  What you do that for?  How you even…”  Glancing back up at her when her soft laugh reached his ears, he frowned.  “You do this?” 

 

 

 

Her lips twitched with amusement.  “No.  Gandalf decided you’d make a great pillow all on his own.  I happen to concur.” 

 

 

 

“Yeah, well,” he grumbled.  “Least you don’t claw me up or bite.” 

 

 

 

Not even a second passed before she made him pay for that unthinking comment.  “Oh, but I _would_ , Pookie.  With a couple of conditions.  Only when asked.  And only when you _really_ deserve it.” 

 

 

 

“Woman,” he warned, but it was halfhearted at best.  Truth was, he didn’t mind her teasing.  Not so much anyway.  Usually, it made her smile and a smile on her face with the memory of that little girl shuffling out of that barn still so close to the surface was worth any discomfort or awkwardness he might feel.  “You gonna stand there all night or you gonna rescue me from Cujo?” 

 

 

 

“Cujo was a dog,” she smirked. 

 

 

 

“Don’t care,” he muttered when she bumped her boot against his own.  “Need sleep anyway.  Got a lot of ground to make up tomorrow.  If we even get to leave.”  This deep into the night, the growls of discontent seemed even louder, closer than they had before, and he wasn’t entirely certain they weren’t.  That very real probability had led them to where they were now, since those fuckers had no way of getting to them—unless they figured out how to pull down the access door and climb the ladder they’d scrambled up themselves hours earlier.  “ _When_ we get to leave,” he quickly corrected himself when he noticed worry flicker across her features. 

 

 

 

“When we get to leave,” she echoed as she knelt down beside him. 

 

 

 

When he offered her the edge of his blanket, she ducked under it and pulled her knees to her chest, and the goosebumps pebbling her pale, freckled skin had him lifting his arm over her shoulders before he had time to even think about how such a gesture would be received.  Turned out he shouldn’t have worried, though, because for once, she didn’t have a teasing word for him.  She just scooted up close and soaked up his natural body heat, sighed and allowed her eyes to start to drift, and his own lids felt leaden as he fought to keep them open, struggled to remain vigilant.  The little gray lint ball crawling up his chest and kneading away, purring up a storm even as he petulantly stared him into reluctant submission wasn’t helping the matter none either.    

 

 

 

“Stop fighting it so hard,” she murmured into his flannel covered chest, tucked her cold fingers between the gaps of his buttons seeking the steady comfort of his heart and his heat.  “Close your eyes.” 

 

 

 

“Just gonna close ‘em for a little while,” he promised. 

 

 

 

She just laughed and curled closer.  “Sleep.” 

 

 

 

“Mmm.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is love. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!!!


End file.
